


The Temple of Anahita

by Snowgrouse



Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Ancient Temple Makes Them Shag, Androgynous male character, Bickering, Bisexual Male Character, Bondage, Cavefic, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Dark Het, Enemas, Enthusiastic Consent, Erotica, F/M, Fellatio, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Genital Shaving, Gentle Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Handcuffed Together, Happy Ending, Happy Sex, Held Down, Heroine/Villain, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Historical, Humour, Kaftan ripper, Light Bondage, Magic, Magic Made Them Do It, Magic-Users, Middle Ages, Muslim characters, Older Man/Younger Woman, Outdoor Sex, POV Bisexual Character, PWP, Rescue, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex Magic, Slavery, Slow Burn, Smut, Snark, Standalone, Telepathy, Tenderness, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, adorkability, can be read as a standalone/original fic, heterosexual anal sex, middle eastern mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: Jaffar sets off on the flying horse to save his reluctant princess from the perils of the desert. However, his brave rescue doesn't go as smoothly as planned, and the bickering pair end up having to spend the night in a cave. A cave which turns out to have been an ancient temple to a goddess of love, still exuding very powerful vibrations indeed.
  Jaffar tuts a little, pretending to consider her. "The eyes are a little crooked." Shamelessly, he devours Yassamin's body with his eyes, gesturing for the slavers to turn her around. "Let me see her behind--ooh, what a pity," he croons and slinks his hips. "It is a little on the flat side. Well, I suppose I could let her keep the outfit; pretend she was a boy," he says and slaps her playfully on the rump.

  At that, Yassamin shrieks, turns around and spits in his face. But he had been expecting that: oh, the shock upon her face as he wipes off her spittle and inhales it through his mask!

  "Well, well, well," he laughs, rocks his hips to pleasure himself and takes her chin in his still-wet hand. "A girl after my own heart," he drawls and narrows his eyes; "the sort who needs a little breaking in."





	

**Author's Note:**

> -Exactly as ridiculous as it says on the tin. Good old cavefic with plenty of snark, fluff and deep and hard and romantic smut.
> 
> -While they are only mentioned in passing, it's worth pointing out that the cucumbers mentioned in the story are small, smooth pickle types about an inch in diameter at most, smaller than the average penis. Something a maiden might be able to play with without self-deflowerment. Just so you know.

***  
Release me from Reason  
That it might depart and flee.  
Break open my skull, pour in the wine of madness.  
Let me be mad as You are;  
Mad with You, mad with life.  
Beyond the common sense of the conventional,  
Beyond respectability and sanity  
And the poison of things learned from books  
A desert burns white-hot  
Where the dervish-sun whirls in every particle of light--  
O Lord, drag me there,  
Let me roast in Perfection!

\--Rumi

***

_No, no, no, you foolish girl, what are you doing? That's not the way to Samarkand!_

_Oh, but this is a sight terrible to behold. Here; take this, then--that's it, a little magical nudge to guide your horse back towards Basra._

Jaffar pulls his fingers off his crystal, then flicks his hand to dim it. A little nudge will not be enough to save Yassamin on its own; this, he knows. Oh, but to even think of her being captured by bandits--the very thought terrifies him; he has to act swiftly.

"Khurshid, tell the Sultan I need to put some finishing touches on the horse." 

"Where are you going, master?" 

Jaffar pulls the tails of his turban over his face. "Pray for me, Khurshid. Whatever it is that a fire-worshipper prays to when he is lost in the desert."

"The Lady of the Waters," Khurshid murmurs. "Ardwisur who is Anahita..."

"Yes, that," Jaffar mumbles as he dashes out of the door.

***

 _Anahita, Anahita;_ the name of the heathen goddess rings in Jaffar's ears a refrain as he rides out of Basra upon his mechanical horse. But he cannot use magic yet so as not to be conspicuous, has to wait until he is well beyond the outskirts of the city before he can order the horse to fly. 

_Anahita, Anahita._ Isn't that the name by which the Magians call Venus? He remembers reading the name in one of Khurshid's star-charts and laughs bitterly to himself. Oh, but does he ever need the help of Venus right now, for it might as well be his own heart that's now lost in the desert, weak from hunger and thirst. 

For if Yassamin were to die, Love itself would die for him; of this, he is certain. Never would he be able to love a woman again; from the moment he had first laid eyes upon her, her beauty had so conquered his heart that no other could ever enter.

Yassamin, the sovereign of his heart and she does not even know it, does not even know the depth of his love for her, and she might die before he's even had a chance to prove it to her. Groaning in despair, he glances behind himself; even if he can still see the city's minarets upon the horizon, he now urges his horse into flight. 

He welcomes the lurch in his stomach, welcomes the nausea as the horse gallops into the air; even that is preferable to the pain in his chest. He squeezes the saddle with his thighs, his arms around the horse's neck as he hangs on for dear life, unable to even breathe during the ascent. The wind stings his eyes so that his turban is soon wet from tears, but this, too, he welcomes, wiping his eyes into the horse's mane and pretending he is not weeping.

 _Concentrate, you dog, concentrate,_ his mind scolds him, now in a voice like a woman's, Venus herself disapproving of him. _If you are to prove yourself worthy of her, you must be brave. Look down._

And now that the horse has reached a suitable altitude and moves straight on instead of ascending, it's easier for Jaffar to straighten himself out, wipe the last of his tears and to focus on the terrain underneath. They're past the rivers and the canals of Basra, now, past even roads and deep into the desert. He wishes he had brought his crystal, now; Yassamin had been travelling eastwards, that's all he knows. There are few human shapes this far in the desert, and he has only spotted one caravan so far, one far too close to Basra to have encountered her yet.

All through the morning he rides, the equivalent of a three-day journey by land, and she has only been gone for two. But there, there--he can see patterns upon the ground, spiralling trails as if left by a drunken donkey-driver. A horse that's suddenly turned, confused, tried to turn itself back towards Basra, its rider having fought it, turned it back again... it cannot be anything except the result of the spell he had himself sent to guide Yassamin. 

Therefore, Jaffar urges his horse down to inspect the trail more closely, tells him to land by the small, roofed well these trails converge around. The imprints seem fresh, he thinks as he drinks from the well, washes, prays; they have most definitely been left by a single rider. They have to be Yassamin's--only a fool would wander into the desert all by himself; even thieves who did not trust one another would not be stupid enough to attempt the journey alone.

"My lady Yassamin!" he calls out at the top of his voice, three times, half a dozen times; yet, there is no answer. 

Well, then. He is fatigued from the ride, yet closes his eyes and casts his mind further than his voice could ever reach, using the last of his magic to send out a psychic call. 

_Yassamin. Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud,_ he calls out with his mind, gentle, encouraging, promising relief. _Return to the well; help is at hand._

And what if she should hear him, yet flee, realising this was the man she had run from in the first place? 

He tries very hard not to think about that as he undoes his turban, soaks it with cold water and wraps it about his head and face once more.

He leaves the call echoing, sits down in the shadow of the well and waits.

***

"Let me go!"

"My, but she _is_ pretty."

"Aye, but feeble-minded. Or mad, to have wandered into the desert on her own."

"How dare you speak to me like that?! My father is the Sultan of Basra!"

"And I'm the Sultan of Samarkand."

"The Sultan of Samarkand is my brother-in-law! I was on my way to see him, in fact."

"She _is_ mad. Do you think we should give her a dash of opium before showing her to the buyers?"

"Let go of me! My father will have your heads!"

No, Jaffar wasn't dreaming. As the voices move closer to the well, he straightens himself out to his full height and peers into the distance, making sure to keep his face covered by his turban. "Who goes there?"

"Tell us your name first, friend," the taller of the men says, eyeing him suspiciously. There are two of them, merchants by the looks of it, and between them stands a tall girl dressed like a youth.

 _Yassamin._ Jaffar's heart leaps in delight as he watches her flashing her eyes at the men; as they try to take her by the arms, she shoves them aside. 

Jaffar almost forgets to answer; he is smiling too much. "My name is Fahd al-Sayyad of Basra," he lies, not unmasking himself yet. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" 

At that, it's Yassamin who again tears herself free and steps in front of Jaffar, clearly not recognising him. "I am Princess Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud, the Sultan of Basra, and I order you to take me home at once. The rewards that await you--"

The shorter man claps his hand over Yassamin's mouth. "Pardon the girl's manners, my lord. Sunstroke, you see; all she needs is a little rest." 

The taller man nods. "And Jamal should know. For you are addressing the brothers Jamal and Jalal al-Baktri, specialists in fine girls."

Jaffar grins into his turban. Oh, but this is a chance too delicious to miss. "How much do you want for her?"

Yassamin's eyes fly wide; she shrieks into Jamal's hand. 

Jalal steps closer and bows. "It is clear you are a man of refined tastes, to recognise a maiden of such class at first sight. Take tea with us, my lord; I am sure we can negotiate a price that'll satisfy us both."

Jaffar lifts his hand. "Gentlemen, I am honoured, but I am in a hurry and have no time to haggle. Come, how much do you want for her?"

Of course, Jalal does not say anything: he has recognised Jaffar for a man of wealth by his ornaments, by his stature, by his manner of speech. Jaffar might as well have painted the word 'profit' on his forehead in gold letters--but little does he mind, as he enjoys watching his proud Yassamin squirm so. Oh, but she _does_ look delicious in her boy's garb, her drawers twisted around her thighs, her breasts trying to escape the confines of her jacket.

Still smiling, Jaffar steps closer and strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Girls like these sell for a thousand dinars, don't they?" he asks playfully, relishing her indignation.

Jalal offers a honeyed, yet incredulous smile at him for daring to jest with them so. "Last one like this fetched five thousand," he prompts.

Jaffar tuts a little, pretending to consider her. "The eyes are a little crooked." Shamelessly, he devours Yassamin's body with his eyes, gesturing for Jamal to turn her around. "Let me see her behind--ooh, what a pity," he croons and slinks his hips. "It _is_ a little on the flat side. Well, I suppose I could let her keep the outfit; pretend she was a boy," he says and slaps her playfully on the rump.

At that, Yassamin shrieks, turns around and spits in his face. But he had been expecting that, had dreamt of it, of her fighting him: oh, the shock upon her face as he wipes her spittle off his temple and inhales it through his mask! Her expression sends a jolt straight to his groin, stirs his prick to lift sweetly against his silks. 

"Well, well, well," he laughs, rocks his hips to pleasure himself and takes her chin in his still-wet hand. "A girl after my own heart," he drawls and narrows his eyes; "the sort who needs a little _breaking in._ "

As the brothers burst into dirty cackles, Yassamin casts her eyes down: she is shaking from terror by now, looking as if she is about to faint. 

But Jaffar is no brute, realising he has gone a little too far. Now, it's time to show Yassamin a little mercy, show to her he truly cares for her and thinks of but her well-being. Indeed, it's time he quit playing games and moved on to the heroic, princess-rescuing part.

"Ten thousand dinars. My final offer."

The brothers stare at each other, stunned. "It's a deal," they exclaim in perfect unison. 

Ten thousand is nothing to the wealthiest man in all of Persia; Jaffar tosses the bags of silver at the slavers' feet. But oh, the astonishment upon the men's faces as he lifts Yassamin onto the horse and takes to the skies! Jaffar swears he can hear both men's bodies hitting the ground from sheer shock.

But he can't look back to make sure--particularly as he has his arms full of a shrieking, panicking princess. 

"Jaffar!" Yassamin screams, finally having recognised her rescuer. 

Well, the horse was a bit of a giveaway. He tightens his arms around her and chuckles. "The very same."

"Let go of me!"

"As I'm sure you can tell, that would not be a very wise decision right now. We are, what, two hundred feet above the ground? And I would not be husband to a puddle."

"I hate you!" she screams, now clutching the horse's mane, burying her face into it.

"Come, now. Is that any way to thank your rescuer? Would you rather have been a slave?"

"What's the difference?" she sobs into the horse's neck.

"I wish you would not say that, Yassamin," he murmurs, holding her tight.

Yet at that, she refuses to say another word. It breaks his heart to feel the way she is now trembling against his body, to feel her still sobbing, when he would do anything in his power to make her happy. Anything at all.

"My dear Yassamin, I--"

There is a hideous, creaking, whistling sound as one of the horse's hind legs slips on its invisible path. _No, no, not now, not now!_ \--one of the cogs must have come loose--oh, Merciful God, but the horse was never designed for a journey as long as this!

As the whistling turns into a hollow, clunking sound, Yassamin turns to him, her face pale from fright. "What's happening?"

Jaffar is terrified--this has never happened to him before, and as he can hardly fix the horse in mid-air, there's only one thing for it. "We must land; hurry. Where's the nearest soft spot?"

"How am I to tell?" she shrieks, clutching the horse's mane. "Oh, God, we are going to die! Oh, please, Merciful God, forgive me for my sins--" and now she is mumbling prayers, hysterical prayers, all of her become but a stiff, quivering bundle of terror.

"Yassamin, I am begging you--your eyes are younger than mine. Is that a river, there on the left? I thought I saw a glimmer. Do you see it, too?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Hold on tight."

The horse might still fall to pieces as they land, but water should help break their fall somewhat. He hopes and prays it will not have to come to that as he uses all of his concentration to slow down the horse's movements, to guide it down to the river's edge. 

There, there, a soft bank of sand: even better. With a high cry, he kicks his feet out of the stirrups and throws both himself and Yassamin off the horse the moment before its hooves hit the ground. The horse crashes with a mighty creak of metal, its legs twisted, crumpling into a miserable pile of fur and brass, dead.

"God, Jaffar--" Yassamin is still shaking, shaking so violently Jaffar has to hug her tight against himself.

"A second later and we would both be missing a leg," he murmurs. His turban has come loose and of course, the moment he reaches out to adjust it, Yassamin squirms out of his arms. "I take it you are unharmed, my lady?"

She stands up and hugs herself, still shivering as she looks at the wreck of the horse. "As much as one can be, under the circumstances. How far from Basra are we?"

Jaffar shadows his eyes with his hand. "We were halfway there, so I should say it's about a day and a half by foot, less if we can find a friendly caravan. Or better yet, horses. Did you, by any chance, see a caravanserai anywhere near here?"

"None."

"That settles it, then," Jaffar says. "We must seek shelter here." The sun is already low in the sky, so they have little hope of finding a ride before nightfall--they'd only get further lost. Therefore, Jaffar gets up, dusts himself off and offers Yassamin his hand. "Come."

"What makes you think I'm coming with you?" she pouts, kicking at the ground with her boot.

He rolls his eyes. "Now is not the time to play the spoiled princess. Would you rather be captured by slavers again, or worse? Or were you thinking of taking your chances with the scorpions, perhaps?"

Stubbornly, she sits down beside the horse. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't think you can fix that thing by yourself and take off. Even I couldn't."

She scoffs. "Even a camel-driver carries a veterinarian's tools upon himself at all times. Not such a genius after all, are you, Barmakid?"

He lays his hands on his hips and huffs. "Do you know, my lady, I cannot decide whether you are stupid, suicidal, or both." Despite the fire flashing in her eyes--she really _is_ quite beautiful when she is angry--he squats beside her and reaches into one of the saddlebags. "The cliffs over there should provide us better shelter. And I did bring food and drink, as it happens. You look as if you could do with a meal. Or three." He lifts out a large, fragrant loaf wrapped in leather: he can practically hear her stomach churning as he holds it out to her. "My mother's chicken pie. Perfect for long journeys."

"Drugged, probably."

He sighs and tucks the pie back into the saddlebag, then pulls the bag over his shoulder. "Very well. I have tried reasoning with you. I am going to ask you one more time, but then--"

"Then, what?" she snaps. "You'll truss me up and fling me over your shoulder like that bag?"

"Is that your fantasy?" he laughs and starts to undo his right bracelet. "That I should drag you away kicking and screaming, is that it? And then ravish you wildly, perhaps?"

She flushes scarlet. "I--"

"No, my sweet. I am an aging man, and need rest before I am capable of wild ravishments." He nudges her arm. "Besides, you are a little on the plump side. I'd break my back carrying you around."

With a shriek of indignant rage, she is on her feet. "You insolent dog!"

She tries to slap him, but he snatches her right wrist in his hand. "Enough of that." He snaps his bracelet around her wrist and brings it level with the one still on his left arm. He murmurs a swift rune and there--the bracelets hum and snap against each other, as if drawn together by powerful magnets.

"There."

"Heathen swine!" she screams and tries to wriggle loose, but the bracelets hold fast.

"Careful, my dear, lest you sprain something. There's no use struggling; they'll only come apart when I tell them to," he laughs and lifts the bracelets. "Coming?"

"I hate you," she fumes.

"Pick up the blankets, will you? We'll be needing them."

***

There is a natural shelf of stone hanging some thirty feet above the riverbed and beneath it, a shallow cave, carved into the rock by flowing water. The same water has deposited enough silt underneath the cliff over the years to give them an earthen floor underneath--the most perfect of shelters indeed. The cliff forms a natural gallery of sorts beside what must be one of the narrower parts of this river, the water slowing down to form a small pool beside the cave before it rushes out once more. It looks as if Nature herself had made this place into a dwelling, and Jaffar's ancestors must have thought so, too: the earth has been stamped firm, there are traces of soot and ochre upon the walls and at the very back of the cave there are figures carved into the walls, depicting what seem to be ancient deities.

"I don't like this place," Yassamin says, hugging herself with her free arm. "Who knows how many djinn live here?"

Jaffar squeezes his hand into a fist, then opens it and blows into his palm: a small ball of orange light emerges from his hand. A mere parlour trick, to be sure, but very useful since they are carrying no lanterns. He levitates the little fireball upwards to better examine the figures, and immediately he bursts into laughter as he recognises the queenly figure in flowing robes, standing high above the other shapes.

"I am serious, Jaffar. What if they should attack us for invading their home?"

"No, my dear; I think they have left us long ago. More's the pity. Do you know who that is?" he says and points to the female figure.

"Some old demoness, I expect. Is that any concern of ours?"

"Anahita," he says, savouring the name, letting its syllables flow softly from his lips. "Anahita, the Lady of the Waters, the Venus of the heathens." He glances at Yassamin. "Khurshid prayed to her when I set off to find you. Perhaps she did answer his prayers."

"I knew it! I'd heard you Barmakids were a bunch of filthy unbelievers, that you still believed in false gods--"

"Come, now," Jaffar says. But the poor girl is terrified! And it's not the first time he has been accused of idolatry by an Arab--perhaps her father had filled her little head with the worst rumours about the Barmakids and that's why she had been so frightened of him, afraid she would be married off to some barbarian brute. Therefore, he has to do his utmost to banish such fancies from her mind: gently, he clasps her hand and recites the Muslim creed with as much devotion as he can muster. 

"There, my lady. I shall pray with you, gladly, if that will help put your mind at ease. If we call upon the one God together, he should protect us, should he not?"

When she still looks at him suspiciously, he flicks his hand over the bracelets, allowing the magic bond between them a little more slack. "There. Ten feet; that should be enough for prayers. Take out the blankets, my child; Mecca should be that way."

"We should wash, first," she mumbles, not looking at him.

He laughs and flicks his hand over the bracelets once more. "Twenty feet, then." He gestures towards the bushes behind which the water starts to rush out of the pool in a steady stream. "That should serve as a screen to protect our modesty," he says as he hands her his bag of toiletries. "Don't worry; I shan't look."

She looks at the bushes, then at him. "Thirty feet."

"Very well," he murmurs, but oh, what wicked delight he takes in her flush as she makes her way towards the bushes!

He promised her he wouldn't look--but he only meant his physical eyes. As he divests himself of his clothes and steps into the pool himself, he sends out a little psychic curl to find out what Yassamin might be thinking. Thus, he pretends to but wash himself, yet is listening to her intently at the same time: the fear in her heart is still loud, but underneath it, her defiance is much stronger. And at the bottom of this swirling chaos of emotions, as if the basenote hidden within a rich perfume, he can feel even a little desire, yes; he is sure that that's what it must be. He cannot hear her exact words over the water, but he can sense her washing and shaving her genitals, swearing under her breath--her sex seems a little swollen underneath her hand, seems to require more washing than usual.

His prick twitches a little, despite the chill of the water--oh, he has to bite his lip in order not to moan in delight. And what is that memory that now flashes through her mind? Of something she is missing, of something she wished she had on hand right now? Is that a--oh. Well, that's not a bathing or a grooming implement, but a... cucumber. So the tales of bored maidens and vegetables were not mere pornographic fantasies after all! Truly, is _that_ how aroused she is? He cannot help but laugh, for her hand is most certainly not washing her cunny any longer, but stroking it instead. _My, my._ He would never have guessed it for the fear she had shown towards him, but it would not be the first time a woman had been frightened of him while still secretly desiring him.

Fortunately, he knows methods with which to treat both fear and arousal. Thus, he wades closer to her, closer, until he is standing waist-deep in the water, just behind the bushes.

"My lady."

She shrieks. "You promised you wouldn't look!"

"I am not looking. It's only that I heard you moaning; I merely wanted to ask if you were in pain. There is no need to disguise a wound from me--I am fully trained in the art of medicine."

"There is no wound," she mumbles. "My belly aches, that is all."

He nods. "You have gone without food for a while; your guts must feel like cement. Let me get you something."

"Wait!" She peeks through the bushes, about to say something, but she is so stunned by the sight of him standing there naked, hip-deep in the water, that she is left wordless. 

Jaffar cannot help but be pleased at this, his pride swelling in his chest: he may be near fifty, but in his youth he was called the most beautiful prince in the land, and he likes to believe that beauty still shows. 

He rests his hands on his hips and grins. "Do you like what you see, my lady?"

"Well, I--"

"You needn't fear," he says and glances down at himself as he takes a few steps back, deliberately exposing his freshly shaven pudendum to her gaze. "Cold water makes eunuchs of all men, I am afraid. This thing--I _would_ call him 'little Jaffar' if he were little, but as you can see, he's more than that--"

She but bursts into laughter, hanging onto the bushes as she sways with it, and even if he can see a rosy nipple peeking through the leaves, the mockery in her laughter emasculates him more than the water ever could.

"What's the matter?"

"My God!" she giggles.

"Come, what is it?" he scowls, trying to keep his voice from squeaking. Merciful Lord, he couldn't be more terrified.

"I--I was merely thinking I have only ever seen stray dogs as thin as you, my lord," she cackles, shaking her head. "You are right; I needn't fear you."

"You--!" he splashes water at her until she screams and hides behind the bushes again. "You insolent trollop!" 

"Please!" she shrieks in delight. "I speak the truth. But what was it that you were about to give me, my lord?"

"Stay there," he growls, splashing her once more for good measure. To be so insulted, when she should be quivering in arousal, terrified of his manhood! He had much preferred that, in fact, he grumbles to himself as he climbs ashore. Perhaps this shall silence her for a while, he thinks as he reaches into the saddlebags for some oil and a leather bulb with a nozzle attached to it.

"Jaffar!"

He glances over his shoulder and Yassamin is caught in the bushes, her arm extended and straining. "Hurry!"

Oh. He must be pulling on her arm. "But a moment." 

It takes a while for him to fill the syringe, however, and she groans impatiently. "I am getting cold."

And it is then that he feels a tug on his arm and stumbles, falling on his arse upon the blankets. "My lady!"

But now she is laughing again, laughing, and in any other circumstance, that laughter would have been to him the most delightful sound in the world; however, now he is filled with impotent rage as Yassamin uses the invisible chain to tug him back into the water, as if he were but a dog on a leash. 

"My lady, if you don't stop, I shall administer this myself!" he groans as he staggers back into the water, brandishing the syringe.

"What is it?"

"I use it to apply oil into clockwork mechanisms, but it should work just as well for a human's innards. For I _do_ take it that it was constipation you meant."

She snatches the syringe from him and disappears behind the bushes. "Thank you." 

She remains quiet for long moments--oh, she should be done by now. It's getting dark, and the water is so cold that soon his genitals will be swallowed up by his body.

"Hurry."

"What _are_ you standing there for, still? Are the bracelets not enough?" she groans. "I do not need a watchdog," she snickers still. "Not that you could wrestle even an ant."

"That's enough!" he shouts and pushes through the bushes, ignoring her screams. The syringe lies upon a rock and she is still squealing and laughing as he takes her by the arms. "Are you finished, or were you merely teasing me?" 

She but pants at that, a little fear still flashing in her eyes even as her nipples press hard against his chest, even as a smile still plays at the corners of her mouth. "Guess."

"I thought to be kind with you," he growls, "a perfect gentleman, but you leave me no choice." He drags his hand between her buttocks and feels for her anus, making her gasp. She is clean, perfectly clean, wailing against his chest as he presses a fingertip against her entrance to inspect her further. "You little minx," he growls, particularly as he would normally be erect by now, but has lost all feeling in his prick thanks to the chill. "What are you playing at? Onto the prayer rug with you."

"One should not pray with lust in one's heart," she grins. 

"Then curb yours," he says as he drags her out of the water and hands her a blanket. He cannot even look at her, not now--he is so cold he has to busy himself preparing them a fire. 

"I'm hungry," she groans as she huddles into her blanket, every inch the spoiled princess. 

"Prayers first."

"I'm not so sure," she says and squats opposite him on the other side of the fire. "This place is making me feel a little heathen." And oh, that glimpse he now catches of her cunny, full and smooth and fat--the little demoness is doing this deliberately. "One can skip prayers in an emergency, can one not?" she says. "And make up for them later." 

All right, then; two can play at this game. Slowly, Jaffar gets to his feet and wraps his blanket around his hips, making sure she cannot miss the beginnings of the erection he carries underneath. "But a moment." 

As he returns with the food, he does so with a slow sway of his hips, sits with his legs so open he is barely decent. And all throughout their meal, she watches him and he watches her. Even as she sates her hunger, another one within her grows, now so intense Jaffar can feel it even without looking for it. Lust radiates from her, brushes against his own aura, warmer than the fire itself. And by the time he brings out the wine--in true heathen fashion, Yassamin sips from the bowl keenly--that heat hums all around them, the psychic waves of it echoing from the stone walls, cocooning them in the warmth of her desire. 

He wonders if she is aware of this, and has to ask.

"Do you know what you are doing, my lady?" he murmurs.

She glances at the wine bowl, then smiles back at him. "Sinning. I can hold my drink, however."

"I do not mean the drink," he says and glances around himself. "Your thoughts, your emotions, your desires--you might as well be speaking them out loud. It might be this place itself," he says, half to himself. "Perhaps it forms some sort of psychic echo chamber; perhaps it is an instrument tuned to very specific emotions at that."

"You talk in riddles."

"The language of magic. Do you truly not feel it?"

She sets down her cup and glares at him. "Are you calling me dull-witted?"

He shakes his head and looks up, marvelling at the relief still illuminated by the fireball. "Anahita, Venus... do you know, I think that once upon a time, this place must have been a temple, one dedicated to rites of a very specific sort. Perhaps your heathen feeling is not superstition after all."

"Oh." She glances down at her cup and flushes scarlet. "I follow you."

He cannot help but grin widely: now, it all makes sense. "It's a women's temple," he murmurs in delight. "For centuries, women would have come here to pray for love, for good husbands, for children." He cannot help but laugh. "You could not have picked a more romantic trysting-place if you tried."

She swallows thickly, suddenly serious; the air grows a little colder as her lust dissipates with her shame. "I have behaved like an infidel whore. I apologise."

"No, no, my lady," he says and dares move closer, taking her gently by the hand. "Don't you see what this means? This place recognises you. Your sensitivity, your life-force..." he gazes upon her with newfound awe, astonished at this new revelation, his heart leaping at it. So this is why he had fallen for her so madly, having recognised in her something great before he had even consciously realised it--oh, he can scarcely believe his luck. "The power of your will... no ordinary woman has one like yours."

"You mean I am stubborn."

"You are that, but you are something more." He takes her chin in his hand. "I mean, my dear Yassamin of Basra, that you are a _sorceress._ "

She blinks, her eyelids heavy from the wine. The fire flickers through her golden eyes and in them, in the air around them, he can feel her conflicting emotions all shouting at each other--just as her pride swells at this idea, a part of her is also shocked, terrified. 

"I didn't mean to," she whispers, her voice wavering a little as she lowers her head. "I didn't mean for you to hear."

"Come," he says, wrapping a gentle but firm arm around her. "You have unsettled people with this before, I presume. Ignorant people. They've told you you have the evil eye, is that it? They used to say the same thing of me when I was little--even my own mother was frightened of me. But one can use this gift to one's advantage, if one but knows how. It but takes a little practice, and I know all about such practices."

But she is not as hopeful as he is. "So I am cursed, is that what you're saying?" she says, but does not pull away.

He shakes his head and smiles. "God shares this gift with only the chosen few. Think of Solomon."

She laughs, a little bitterly. "And I suppose you think me the Queen of Sheba?"

He hugs her tighter. "You _are_ my queen. And gladly would I share my knowledge, my books and my instruments with you. It would be an honour to work magic with you, my sweet."

"Even if I turned you into a rabbit?" she laughs, now warmer, heat radiating from her once more.

"I doubt you would want a husband endowed like a rabbit, my lady," he chuckles and nudges her hip with his erection.

And at that, she finally turns to face him and places her hand on his heart. "We are not even wed yet."

"On paper, we are," he murmurs and strokes her back through her blanket, smiling at her. "And that's all that matters. Although..." He pretends to consider, biting his lip, squinting his eyes. "Let's see. Can wild ravishments take place within wedlock? Or should I divorce you first?"

"Stop it!" she moans and covers her face with her hand. "You know what I mean. They have not seen a wedding yet."

"Ah, but they have not seen us together either, and I can return you to Basra in secret, even cast a spell to convince everyone your virtue has remained intact." He takes her hand from her face--he is sincere and would have her know it from the gentleness in his eyes. "And, my love, once we are in Baghdad, I promise you the greatest of wedding feasts Persia ever saw, one befitting your honour."

Her eyes search his; he holds her hand, stroking it gently with his thumb before he continues. "But before that... I _felt_ your desire, Yassamin," he murmurs. "And I can feel it still. There is nothing to fear. Unless it is your own passion you are afraid of?"

She laughs nervously. "Yes; what if I should turn _myself_ into a rabbit?"

He kisses her hair. "Then I shall turn myself into a rabbit, too. And you know what they say about rabbits; the wildest lovers of the animal kingdom!" He lets out a torrent of squeaks and ruts against her with exaggerated fury.

"Oh, you are impossible!" she laughs, squeals as he tickles her, pins her down and rubs against her, still pretending to be a rabbit; she shrieks so loudly it echoes off the cliffs. "Stop!"

"But I thought it was a wild ravishment you wanted!" he pants and smiles, smiles; he is so happy his chest aches.

"Not from a rabbit," she laughs, blowing hair from her face. "Would you kiss me like a man at least?"

And she looks so beautiful lying there, flushed, smiling, her eyes sweet and warm like honey; how could he not? And oh, how he wants to kiss her indeed: as well as a woman can be kissed, better than that fool Ahmad ever could; oh, he shall prove himself to her the better lover. 

Gently, oh, so very gently he cups her cheeks and nuzzles her face. "I would be honoured, my lady."

"Call me Yassamin," she murmurs, smiling against his lips. "I am your wife, am I not?"

"And my slave girl," he hisses, grinning wickedly, pinning her wrists to the ground and taking her cry of delight into his mouth.

Yet it is with gentleness that he feasts upon her mouth: for so long, he has dreamt of kissing these lips, their fullness, their amazing curves. Gently, he sucks upon both lips, traces the bold, curved lines of her mouth with his tongue until she moans hoarsely against him, yet he does not stop. As he tugs on her lower lip with his teeth--but lightly, ever so lightly--she moans louder and wraps her legs around him, disentangling them from their blankets. Now, he cannot keep quiet either, sighing into her mouth in ecstasy as her wet cunny drags against the side of his prick; he angles his hips so that he can better rut against her slit.

"Yassamin, Yassamin," he pants against her lips, unable to stop kissing her.

She moans and pulls her mouth off his with a smack. "Take me," she pants.

It's almost impossible for him not to enter her that very moment: he trembles atop her, the head of his cock nestled in the sweet, sticky heat of her cleft and he fears losing his mind. He wants her body, but he also wants more than that: he would not be able to bear it if she did not truly love him, if she was but sating a madness brought on by heathen magic.

Therefore, he grits his teeth and tells his prick to be quiet, for he must be sure, he must. 

"Is this what you truly want, Yassamin?" he asks, trying so very hard not to sob.

She sinks her hands into his hair and looks deep into his eyes, a little shiver going through her before she nods. "It is." 

He presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, hating the way his voice comes out high, soft. "It's only that I--" he sighs. This wasn't how he'd imagined telling her, but it's too late to turn back, now. "It's only that I _love_ you. So you see, my dear, sweet Yassamin, I would make love to you all night, but I must know whether you return that love."

"I do," she laughs, tears glimmering in her eyes. "I hate you a little, too, but there you have it."

He collapses on top of her, laughing, hugging her, groaning against her shoulder. "Oh."

She whispers loudly into his ear. "I love you, you ridiculous man." She hugs him in turn and chuckles in his ear. "Now what was it that you were saying about rabbits?"

"Do you want rabbits or ravishments, or both?" he groans as he lifts his head from her shoulder.

And now she squirms underneath him, biting her tongue playfully. "Ravishments, I think, just to be on the safe side."

He gets to his knees and undoes his remaining bracelet. "Very well, then," he says and snaps the bracelet around her bare wrist, then locks both bracelets together above her head. "How do you like that?"

"You bastard!" she screams and kicks. 

"I do so love it when a girl talks dirty in bed," he sighs. 

He stands up and relishes this, the waves of frustration and arousal radiating from her--now that she can see the fullness of his erection, the way it gleams from her wetness in the firelight, the most wonderful of terrors wells up within her. She ceases her squirming and but pants upon the blankets, staring up at him, pressing her thighs together. Yet he knows she is but pleasuring herself with this, squeezing her thighs around the lips of her cunny, droplets of wetness beading from it, filling the air with a heavy sweetness.

"I can hear you," he sing-songs and runs his fingertips up and down the underside of his cock. "This is what you want, is it not? Hmm?"

She buries her face in her arm. "You are a beast."

"And you love it."

"Stop playing games!"

"But I thought you liked games. In fact, I was going to ask you about a certain game you seemed to enjoy very much." He reaches into the saddlebag and oh, her face as he pulls out a cucumber! "I believe you two are old friends?"

"Merciful God, no!" she moans and turns her face into the blankets, groaning in shame. 

He pretends to compare himself with the cucumber. "A little shorter than I, is Master Pickle; a little thinner, too, but I suppose he would do, if you were desperate."

She glares at him. "Do you mean to say that you are impotent? Is that it?" she rolls her eyes. "Some ravishment, this, to be threatened with a plant!"

"My lady, do you even know what 'impotent' means?" he laughs, glancing at his erection. 

Yet, she is serious; quieter, now. "Don't jest."

And that, finally, serves him with the emotional slap he needs to snap out of his love-madness. This _is_ her first time, and as such, it is a serious matter. He can feel the tension now heaving off her, the disappointment, the nervousness--she looks as if she is about to burst into tears.

 _Jaffar, you fool,_ Anahita herself seems to be whispering behind his back.

"I apologise," he murmurs, dropping the cucumber. He lies down beside her, careful not to put his weight on her, resting his hand on her belly, his fingertips brushing the root of her mound. "What would you have me do?"

She glances up into the darkness of the cave, squirming a little. "You were doing well until the cucumber," she mumbles.

"Let me un-cucumber it," he says, nuzzling her cheek, with as much sincerity as he can muster. "Would this be better?" he whispers, sliding his fingers down, rubbing the top of her slit in gentle circles, seeking the centre of her pleasure just as he now seeks his way into the centre of her heart once more. "Tell me, Yassamin."

She twitches a little; her breath stops. He takes this as a good sign and continues to press her, massage her. "Does that feel good?"

She blinks her wet eyelashes and glances at him, now smiling a little. "Strange," she says. "To have someone else do it, I mean."

He leans over her to kiss her neck, her face; his face is trembling from emotion. "Now you won't have to do it alone any more," he whispers against her cheek; "ever again, I swear."

And as he slides his fingertips to the left side of her clitoris, just above the hood of it, she _arches_ and moans, so sudden and so loud it echoes off the walls. Ah, so this is the more sensitive side, then, he realises with a grin, and keeps on rubbing her there in gentle circles. Again, she moans and trembles, so violently she nearly pushes him off herself; she jerks even as he laughs against her chest. 

"So I take it that you like this, then?"

"Please. I am ready. I have been ready all night--I--"

"But that won't do, my love," he croons in mock-pity and tuts, "that won't do at all."

For he never takes a cunny without having had a taste of it: swiftly, he slides down and spreads out the blankets so that he can rest between her legs comfortably.

But as he brings his head between her thighs, Yassamin stiffens, stares down at him in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"I thought it obvious, my lady. I am about to kiss your sex, as a good lover does."

"But I--" her thighs tremble about his head, her eyes wide from shock. 

"You think it filthy, even when you have just washed? I cannot think of a taste sweeter," he murmurs, dropping a soft kiss of greeting upon her mound. "I won't tell anyone if you won't," he grins.

And oh, but the way her eyes now take fire from his, the way she bites her lip and clenches her fists, her feet shifting upon the blankets: there is only a moment's hesitation until her shame is undone by her virgin curiosity. And she is utterly charming even in her chastity: she dares not speak the words out loud, yet spreads her legs nevertheless, quivering from her excitement, her breasts trembling from her rapid breathing.

He rewards her for this with a long lick, long and sweet; a lick slick with saliva from perineum to clitoris, he chuckling into her mound as she tosses there in her surprise.

"Oh, God!" she gasps upon a stuttered breath.

Yet he wants to hear her desire from her this time, a little cruel in his teasing, but he must have it from her lips, he must. "Shall I do that again?" he asks and tilts his head like a cat, dropping a little kiss on her inner thigh. 

She stares up at him, her eyes wide. "Please!"

"That's my girl," he purrs, and he does as he is told: he laves her slit with long licks, adoring the way the petals of her sex are flushed and swollen against his tongue, she already so wet she is melting upon his mouth, so hot and sweet on the inside. He sucks upon her folds a madman, wanting to taste each and every drop of her sweetness here, the little salt there, and again the dizzying heat as he dips but the tip of his tongue into her entrance--oh, now he cannot help but rut against the blankets, the wool rough against his already tortured prick. 

Yet he wants to make sure her torture is just as great, and therefore he brings his mouth to her clitoris, sucking upon it with intent: she lets out a little hoarse mewl and from that, he judges his suction too hard, so he loosens it, listening for further noises to guide his way.

But after a few moments, he receives from her only silence: Yassamin seems to have fallen into a trance, yet one of those vibrant and violent ecstasies of the fakirs, going by the way she trembles against his mouth. Her head is thrown back, her hair a tangle against the white of her raised arms; her hips twitch against his face, her belly spasming in her delight. Could it be that she has reached the peak already? It's almost impossible to tell on a woman, and in his hunger Jaffar had forgotten to listen to her mind, telepathy usually being the only way through which he can ascertain he has satisfied a woman.

"My lady?" he asks and rests his chin on her belly, pausing for breath.

"Mnh?" She raises her head a little, and oh, how sweetly her eyes are crossed, now, the way she peeks at him from between two hardened rosebuds of nipples!

"I merely meant to ask if you had reached release already," he laughs and licks her taste off his lips, happy, so happy.

"I... I don't think so, no," she laughs back at him, her voice a little nervous, embarrassed. "It feels so strange, you see. Ticklish. But pleasant," she adds immediately before he can respond; "wonderful."

He nods. "But you would rather I took you instead," he says, and it is no question as he leans over her to kiss her, she gasping a little as she tastes herself upon his lips, her cunny clenching against his prick as he flicks his tongue into her mouth. "Ask me, Yassamin," he moans into her as he guides himself to her entrance, stopping just short of deflowering her; "I could never live with myself if--"

But now, she reaches up to wrap her cuffed arms around his neck, closing her legs around his waist. "For the last time, son of Yahya, _take me,_ " she moans into his kiss, now she the one flicking her tongue against the roof of his mouth; determined, she lifts her hips in invitation, even if she must be afraid of pain. "Now, or never. We have waited too long, we--"

But her voice breaks into a cry as he guides himself inside of her: her teeth clash against his as her hymen tears and he rocks himself inside of her. She sobs from her pain, curls up from it, but he holds her through her pain: he cradles her, taking in the sorrow of her eyes, bringing his thumb to her clitoris to alleviate the pain of his movements inside of her.

"There, Yassamin, my sweet Yassamin; it'll feel better in a moment, I promise, I swear--"

But now she pulls harder on him, locking her ankles around him, her teeth scraping his skin as she cries out into his shoulder, as if to punish his flesh for now so taking hers. In a strange fury, she keeps on shouting, clinging, pushing herself back onto him as if it were her virginity that were her enemy, already like those women who during lovemaking yearn to let go of their chaste upbringing and wish to play the wanton whore instead.

Yes, he thinks, this is what it must be: it has to be this freedom that she is now grasping for in her grasping for him, her cunny squeezing around his length, he only halfway inside of her virgin smallness. Oh, but how dearly he wants to be to her this liberator she has been yearning for, to be to her the lover of her dreams releasing her from all of chastity's chains, letting her flower into the Venus she was born to be.

And above them, the full cheeks of the Magian Venus glow glad in the flickering firelight: Jaffar shares with her a conspiratorial smile. Yet immediately, his head falls down as he takes in his true and living goddess here and now, this human altar he now worships at, this vibrant spirit and warm flesh that now so surrounds him, so shelters him. That Yassamin should do this despite the pain he is clearly giving her, that her desire for him would triumph even over her pain--oh, it makes his heart tremble with tenderness.

"You're a brave girl," he says and strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers, hoping she will not take it for condescension. "I mean that--" he looks down at himself, the thin smear of blood upon his cock. "Like I said, he is not a little Jaffar, and I would not give you more pain," he says and searches her eyes. 

Yet she shakes her head. "It doesn't hurt as much any longer," she says.

"I am glad to hear that. But let me make it more comfortable for you." And as he says this, he takes her arms from around his neck and releases her, undoing the bracelets with a kiss upon each. "There." He rubs circulation back into her hands, her wrists, losing himself in kissing her once more: oh, but the way her cunny squeezes around him as he laces their fingers--both his heart and his prick leap in utter happiness.

"Do you know what it means when it no longer hurts?" he asks, a glad fool, sure that his eyes are now crossed from happiness, too.

"Mm?" she says and squeezes around him again, smiling wickedly, already relishing what this squeeze does to him.

"It means you're no longer a girl, my sweet," he murmurs against her lips and begins to take her harder so that she cannot squeeze around him any more; "but a woman," he groans into her mouth and now he cannot stop thrusting, cannot stop driving his love into her, his joy into her, so possessing her. "A wife. My wife, my _wife_ \--"

And it is at that that she cries out, but it is a cry he recognises for one of pleasure; without words, he guides her right hand to her cunny. "Rub yourself. Let me see it. Please. Let me feel you undone, my sweet--"

"I don't know how!" she moans against his shoulder. "I've never been this full, never, ever."

Oh, he would not play tricks when it's their first time, but he is so close he cannot go on much longer, and he would see her satisfied. "Let me help you, then. With my magic. Do you trust me?"

"Yes!" Yassamin moans against him in despair, and from the way her cunny now flutters as he draws back and remains still, her body is already upon the edge: now, he will only have to give her a little psychic push to open the channels of her body for this new ecstasy, to teach her body to enjoy him the way she will now enjoy him every night, every night, every night. 

"Then take it--each wave--can you feel them?" he stutters into her shoulder as he keeps on thrusting into her, not only with his prick but all of his care, all of his soul, pounding his love through her body in waves. Through each blow upon her womb, he sends out ripples, ripples to reach her heart, oh, to flood her, ripples now engulfing him, ripples down his spine--

And now Yassamin is screaming in his ear, and he has to still, and it is she who is rippling around him, her own energy rising up to greet his, lapping at him in waves higher and higher. It's more than he could have ever wished for, oh-- _his princess, his sorceress,_ he sobs in awe as Yassamin's magic now rushes to mingle with his own. Triumphant, he roars and lets go, meeting each and every one of her waves with a thrust of his own until she is the sea pulling him back into her depths, all of him retreating into her, only to surge out again and now his whole body is consumed. He turns his head so as not to pierce her ear with his own howls, his sobs as he empties himself in her, the desperate longing of days, weeks, months now shooting out of his body with his sperm. 

"Yassamin, Yassamin, Yassamin," he cries as he tosses there upon her body; her flesh, too, as soft as waves, as white as jasmine, jasmine petals folding around him as her body enfolds him. "For so long, I wanted you; so long, so long," he whispers into her hair, his own now wet and dangling about his face; he blows strands of it from his mouth--or maybe they are hers; they are so entwined he cannot tell. "It seems like aeons."

But perhaps that is now too much for her to think about: she lies quiet and still underneath him, and she must be still overwhelmed by all these new sensations, emotions, powers; of another having been inside of her this way. Carefully, he slips out of her so as not to give her even the slightest fraction of lingering pain; suddenly a little melancholy, he wraps the blankets around them both and cradles her in his arms protectively. Yet he allows her this silence, does not pry into her mind even if he is tempted to, wanting to respect this moment of her taking her body back to herself, the first step of her healing and growing into womanhood, wifehood, witchhood.

"I am not angry with you, if that's what you think," she finally whispers against his chest, yet does not look into his eyes. "I--I am glad. Glad that we did this."

He kisses the parting of her hair. "I am glad, too. Do not fear I will think you unvirtuous outside of all this, or judge you for... well," he grins. "I believe 'wanton' is the word, and it happens to be one of my favourite words. I have always believed in a balance of reason and desire in a human being, male or female; I have never liked my women to be _too_ chaste. Chastity is a tyranny imposed upon women, I feel. Therefore, as my wife, I declare that in my bed, you should feel free to be as lustful and as adventurous as a man."

"But that would mean losing all reason to the tyranny of these," she laughs and nudges his genitals a little with her knee. 

He but shakes his head. "But you have a woman's cunning to balance this, you see. Therefore, you are in a better position to use desire wisely, to wield it better than a lust-addled man. It is said in all the magical books that in order for one to become whole, one should balance the masculine and the feminine inside of one's self."

Her eyes flick back and forth, searching his. "Did you mean it when you said I had a boy's buttocks?"

He slaps them gleefully and pulls her closer, purring. "Is that a hint?"

She blushes and lowers her eyes. "I-I am sorry. It's this place, making me say the strangest things. Think the strangest things."

"No, no," he says and brushes her hair tenderly from her cheek. "It was I who started it."

Well. He means the talk of magical two-sexedness, but to know that his comment of taking her like a boy has been haunting her all this time... perhaps sodomy was what she had had in mind all along; perhaps the idea of it had been what had aroused her so in the water when she had been giving herself the enema. 

Or perhaps he is just a dirty old man. He tells her this as he takes her chin and kisses her, soothing her.

But she is still restless, breaking the kiss with a shake of her head. "We must both have filthy minds. I am not as innocent as you might believe."

He but laughs. "Oh, but my dear, sweet Yassamin, mistress of the cucumber, I am much more interested in the part of you that isn't innocent. Already have I told you this," he says and kisses her hand. "Whatever debaucheries your mind can come up with I will cherish, and protect the secrets of our bedchamber with my life."

She looks past him at the reliefs. "I feel as if they are listening to us, right now. Who are you to tell whether or not they will whisper their secrets to whoever next takes his rest here?"

He shakes his head and smiles, still cupping her cheek. "Travellers would think us but mirages of ancient orgiasts; already we have had an adventure that's the stuff of fairytales. Even now, as I look upon your beauty, I find it hard to comprehend that it is a human woman and not a pairi I now hold in my arms," he says with true tenderness, hoping she will not take it for but flattery. "Merely holding you, kissing you is to me... well. Magical," he says. "Holy."

She raises a playful eyebrow. "And lovemaking?"

He widens his eyes and looks around himself in mock-shock. "I daren't say how holy. God will think I blaspheme!"

She laughs and presses her head against his chest. "You are ridiculous. A madman."

"The most perfect of companions for a mad princess, then," he says and kisses her hair. "But, come. Do not think me a fool; I can sense what it is that you desire, and do not fault you for this desire. There are women out there who enjoy sodomy very much, even more than ordinary sex--so much so that in Baghdad, we have girls who routinely dress as pages to lure men into taking them like boys."

"Really?" she stares at him, astonished.

"Yes, really," he says and slaps her buttocks. "And after all, it'd be a shame to let your cleaning efforts go to waste."

"I don't mean that," she says, her eyes flickering back and forth. "So you know how to..." 

"Yes," he drawls, her eyes widening even further, and again he can tell she is pressing her thighs together, all of her jerking so that he's sure it's thanks to her cunny tightening violently. "I know how to take a boy, a page-girl; was taken myself when I was a lad. There. That's my sinful secret--I'll trade it for yours to keep. To show you that I trust you, that you can trust me in turn."

"But, Jaffar!" she laughs nervously, but now relaxes a little more, softening with renewed desire, wrapping an arm around his neck. "I suppose I should have expected it. The moment I saw you, I knew you for an old goat."

He makes a mock-pout. "I call her a pairi and this is how she returns my affections!"

But now his yelp is swallowed by her lips; she takes his mouth and rolls him onto his back. He is surprised, but pleased at this turn of events; he moans in delight into her mouth and takes his hands to her waist as she squirms there, rutting against him.

"But, my lady!" he laughs into her kiss and pulls up his legs, cradling her back with his thighs; his prick begins to stir against her buttocks. "This old goat does not protest; after all, I ravished you, so it is only fair of you to now return the favour."

She shakes her head atop him, her hair tickling his cheeks. "It must be this place!" she moans. "It's driving me mad. There's this ache in my hips--"

"Quite natural for women who have been well-loved," he says and massages those hips with his fingertips, adoring their softness as he drinks from her kisses. "All the medical texts say that an orgasm invigorates a woman, whereas it leaves men--well, _most_ men--" he says and presses his hardening cock against her arse, "exhausted. I am afraid I am now the one in need of a little play before I am ready. Would you like to get to know him better?"

That's it--again he has managed to turn her virgin curiosity to his advantage. For immediately, she dismounts him, gathers the blankets around them better and sits beside him, her hand resting upon the hollow of his right hip. She is not touching his prick yet, but oh, what a pleasant shiver her touch sends through him as her fingers tremble there! 

"Immediately you have found the weaknesses in my armour," he sighs in delight and leans his head on one arm. "That's a very sensitive place, in fact. The crook of the hip."

"Is it?" she asks him, a wicked flash in her eyes as she runs her fingertips up the area between his hipbone and his pubis, her smile widening as his hips jerk up to seek her touch.

"That tickles," he says and takes her by the wrist with his free hand. "Try pressing. It is most wonderful for stirring the sexual humours."

"You keep talking like a doctor," she murmurs but repeats the caress nevertheless, now with a massaging movement, playing her fingertips along his hip with alternating pressure as if she were playing an instrument. "Will it finally silence you if I do this?" she says and takes her other hand to the left of his belly, now massaging him from both sides, her breasts briefly brushing against his prick.

"Oh--Yassamin--" and now his eyes close; his erection grows and grows until it touches her breasts. And yet she does not move aside, only laughs; already he feels helpless under her ministrations, with the intermittent brushes of her sweet soft bosoms teasing him into full hardness.

"Please," he mumbles to her through gritted teeth, his eyes half-closed. "Please, would you take me in your hand?" he asks and at that, his prick lifts so high it slaps back against his belly, leaving a shimmering trail of sap behind itself. 

And he can tell that she has been avoiding this, perhaps a little afraid; he can tell she is masking a hesitance from the too-swift way she now takes him in her hand, clumsy for a caress. 

"Oh," she says. "But you are burning!"

He laughs and lets his head fall back, his cock pulsing in delight against her palm. "See what I told you about the humours?"

She nods. "And I know what you will say next, my doctor. That you are burning up, and that the only way to cure this fever is to apply moisture."

"You're learning," he purrs. "You may kiss it if you like." 

Her hand stills--ah. He was aware that might shock her. Particularly as traces of her blood still cling to his skin here and there; perhaps he has indeed gone too far. 

Yet, marvel of marvels, Yassamin holds on to his prick and keeps on staring at it, and from underneath her shock he can see not fear but determination: the look of the strategist. 

"But a moment," she tells him, and his heart lurches in his chest as she leaves him; yet, she is true to her word and soon returns with his own bag of toiletries and a wetted cloth. So swiftly does she mop his prick that he cannot even think of dirty jokes to make; that, and he hopes she will not notice how he softens slightly from the coolness of the water. 

He but lifts his head, bleary. "I'm sure that's clean eno--" but then she replaces the cloth with her lips and he can see no more. "Oh," he but groans as he falls back on the blankets.

"You are burning up still," she laughs, her eyes sweet as she presses her lips to his shaft, cradling him gently in her hand. "I am surprised the water did not turn to steam."

"How do you like it?" he rasps, forcing his head up to see her better, to imprint this sight upon his memory forever: his Yassamin, performing for him this illicit kiss upon what's--well, this is their wedding night, is it not?

"It's lovelier than I imagined," she murmurs, pressing her cheek against his cock. "It's not dirty at all, nor foul-smelling. I could never have imagined the skin to be so soft! Or that I could feel your pulse," she says, resuming her slow kissing of his entire length. 

He reaches out to take her free hand in his, lacing their fingers. "It is only that you are kissing my heart's beat, my love," he sighs, his chest trembling from emotion. "If that does not tell you how true my love for you is, nothing will."

But then she extends her tongue to give him one long lick from root to tip, and he laughs in delight, squeezing her hand, arching underneath her touch. "You _have_ been studying this!"

"My father had a large library," she murmurs, and oh, the tremors of her laughter against his shaft make him tremble with them. "Which is why I have not kissed the head much. I would not undo you yet."

"There's no fear of it, I promise," he says and takes his free hand to her cheek. "I can hold back, especially now that I have come once. Please. Feel free to experiment. There's nothing I would deny you."

"Why, my proud wizard, I believe you are pleading!" she laughs and gives him a lick right upon that sweet spot below the head--oh, she knows, has known all along--and then she closes her mouth around the head and he has to howl, has to bite the inside of his cheek to stay true to his promise. Oh, but now he is glad for her teeth, glad for her clumsiness, the looseness of a mouth unused to sucking; yet, because it's _her_ mouth, his Yassamin's mouth closing around him in genuine love, this feels more amazing than the suck of a trained courtesan. 

"I am not pleading," he gasps, the taste of his own blood now staining his tongue, his feet skidding upon the blankets; "I surrender! Hurry, my Yassamin. Please. Please take your pleasure of me now or I'm going to--you won't like the taste--"

But her face, her face as she pulls back for breath, her full lips glistening with saliva, her teeth flashing white in the firelight! Every night from now on, he wants to see this pride writ upon her face, this intoxication in her eyes at the power she wields over him, body and soul. Oh, but he has to take this smile to himself, and so he leans forwards and pulls her into his arms; he kisses this smile from her lips onto his own, drinks in her laughter, shivers in joy as she straddles him, her cunny hot and wet against his prick.

"Use the oil," he groans into her mouth and smacks her buttocks, spreading them, now teasing at their cleft; he growls as he can feel her cunny clenching against him at the touch. "Slick me up, then do with me what you will, my queen."

She but laughs again and tosses her hair from her face, kissing his neck. "So the tables have turned. Now who's the one begging to be taken?"

He but stretches in shameless glee underneath her. "The _shahanshah_ of all Persia! And he insists," he hisses, bringing his hands to her arse once more. "Come. There should be some oil left in the bag. Put it on me."

"Are you sure?" she asks as she moves off him only enough to take out the bottle. "I would not undo you with my hand," she smirks.

"You're right," he says and snatches the bottle from her, swiftly spreading some oil over his cock with the lightest of touches. When her face falls from disappointment, he but smiles and beckons to her. "Come. Turn on your back, and I will prepare you instead."

And it is now that her enthusiasm is again dampened by fear: a little clumsily, she spreads her limbs upon the blankets, biting her lip.

"That's it," he coaxes her with a kiss upon her knee; "raise your legs and lift up your hips, higher than they were when I was taking you."

"Like this?" she asks a little awkwardly, now bent completely in half. 

"That's exactly it," he murmurs, the last consonants muffled as he sinks his mouth into her cunny. "Mmm. If I do this, it should not be too painful," he says as he brings a slickened fingertip to her anus, massaging the oil into the folds of it, pressing very carefully. "In fact, I am told that it is less painful for some than being deflowered."

"Then do it," she says and nods, with the true courage befitting a descendant of great warriors.

"That's the spirit," he mumbles but then he cannot speak, for he is sucking her clitoris into his mouth--already it is swollen; her cunny, too, pulsing as he dips his finger deeper into her arse and the ring of muscle squeezes around his fingertip. Oh, but he loves this, loves this first resistance, loves her hoarse cry as he dips in only to the first knuckle: that shock to the nervous system that this penetration brings, the repeated convulsions of the muscles around the fingertip. He knows the sensation too well, having had this done to him, having done this to others so many times: that chaotic moment when the body both seeks to eject the intruder but also seems to be sucking him in as it gives, gripping him so tightly. 

And that thought goes immediately to his prick: already the animal in him is thinking of how sweetly this ring will soon be clutching around him, how sweetly it'll drag around his length, already he dreams of--

But no. No. He must stay patient for her sake, must remember to listen to her, and thus he starts to move his finger in and out with slow movements, hooking it just a little to help the muscles relax. And all the while, he stares up at her, at the confused, delighted, pained and again delighted sensations flitting across her face--or is that the flickering firelight?--but he never stops in his sucking of her, never stops pleasuring her with mouth and finger. From this day on, he wants to become the sole instrument of her pleasure, wants his body to be what she craves to sate herself with, wants to bring her every ecstasy a woman's body is capable of experiencing.

"Jaffar--" she gasps, rocking a little, obviously finding it hard to stay in position like this.

He pulls off her and helps her rearrange her feet onto the blanket--now that he has one finger in, he can guide another in more easily, and he insinuates it to her entrance. "Rock yourself down upon them if you like," he says, kissing her belly. "Stroke yourself; do it at your pace. I am yours to command." 

"Oh--" she gasps as she balances there. For as her hips come down, so do both of his fingers enter her, a little too rough, a little too fast and she jerks upon them, all of her body stiffening. 

"Shh, shh--" he stills his fingers for a moment. "Move yourself until it feels good. It always takes a while to find one's pleasure here," he says warmly. 

And it is his sharing of this knowledge that he hopes now helps her trust him, now encourages that faint smile that plays upon her lips. That unlike with the cunny, he truly knows how being penetrated like this feels for her, the sharing of this secret bringing a singular equality to this act. Most men are ashamed to ever admit they've been taken as boys, even if most have had that experience; it's something a man leaves behind himself upon reaching adulthood and never mentions in the bedchamber, for fear of his women thinking him unmanly.

And at this, and at Yassamin's again surprised and astonished look of pleasure, he tilts his head in glee. "Do you think me unmanly for this, my Yassamin?" he asks playfully, moving his hand to meet the rocking of her hips, daring to curl his fingertips a little against her womb. "Hmm?"

"Oh--" her head tosses to the side and she squeezes her clitoris, all of her trembling--he knows this aspect of sodomy, too, that moment when the sensation is so overwhelming one finds it hard to speak. Yet she grits her teeth and moans to him, a touch of delicious spite to her voice. "I don't care!"

"It feels good?" he grins, his own prick waving in delight.

"Yes! Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop--" she howls through her nose, now, her hand flying on her clitoris, and now her cunny is clenching right over his fingers, its sap flowing down to slicken her arse as if to invite him in further. And even if he would have wanted to take her just now, he cannot bear to deprive her of this: for she is already coming undone upon his fingers, her arse loosening as she bellows low in her throat, a sound deep, strange for a woman.

He is sure she must have played with her arse before, but she still seems shocked at the power of her release: Jaffar but delights in it, as this is an orgasm he _can_ feel with ease, that uncontrolled loosening and tightening of the anal muscles, the sweet trickle of a woman's fluids at the peak of it. He curls his fingers and chuckles with pride, leaning over to kiss her breasts as she still tosses upon his fingers helplessly, his each hooking of them making her body jerk and twist upon him like that of a maddened dancer. Oh, but he loves this, loves this; loves it even as he has to pull his fingers out to better embrace her, to let her breathe.

"Oh, my God," she laughs against his neck in astonishment, her flesh heaving and jiggling underneath him sweetly. 

He wipes his hand on the blanket and sighs happily into her mouth. "And in case you were wondering, no sorcery was involved this time," he says and twiddles his fingers. "Only the magic of these."

She rolls her eyes. "You are a man vain; a show-off."

But for that, he rolls them over so that she is now lying down on top of him. "Then it is about time you humbled me, my lady, is it not?" he says with a wide grin. "Would you care for a ride?"

She raises her eyebrow. "You are also unsubtle."

"So is he, I am afraid," he says and nudges her buttocks with his erection. "But trust that I am also thinking of your pleasure and your ease. This way, you can again take me at your own pace," he says and strokes her arms tenderly. "Try."

Again, there's uncertainty and fear and some shame there in her eyes, he thinks, but this is exactly why he is encouraging her: he knows she is intelligent enough to realise not all men would even be able to submit their bodies to women like this when consumed by desire. Both he and Yassamin know that for all their jokes about wild ravishments, he is not merely taking his pleasure of her but sharing his pleasure _with_ her, giving to her of his knowledge and his skill so that both may enjoy the act of love equally. 

And he can feel this understanding now rippling from her, her mind thrown open wide not only by Anahita's magic but by the pleasure she has already experienced in his arms, this form of lovemaking the most transcendental of them all in the way it sets all nerves of the body alight. She is still glowing from her release, her trust and her gratitude now making her radiant with affection as she sits there astride him, haloed by the flames.

Neither of them says a word as she begins to guide him inside of her arse--he knows this moment always for one clumsy and a little embarrassing, so he but coaxes her on with gentle smiles and kisses as she balances there. She slips a little with the oil and her own slickness, staggering upon her knees but he helps her with his hands, holding his prick straight and pressing in, seeking the right angle of entry together with her. Once they find it, she stiffens in pain: he but keeps holding himself still, offering himself to her, fighting the urge to push inside.

And it breaks his heart to see her like this, the way she is now forcing herself upon him with the same fury with which she had wanted to rid herself of her virginity: with an anguished cry, she rocks there and lets her weight force her body down to accept his cock inside of itself. All of her skin breaks out in goosebumps; he can smell her cold sweat, aches in his heart as she remains there, cramped and half-seated upon his cock, him half inside of her.

"Shh. Shh. You don't have to take it all at once," he tells her and gathers her to himself; her knees tremble as she leans on top of him, still tense as she struggles to keep him inside of herself. 

"But I want it," she groans through gritted teeth and pulls back from his kiss, taking her hand to her cunny. "I must, I must," she tells him feverishly, maddened, as if this was a matter of honour to her, a test by which she had to prove herself to him, to prove to him the true depth of her passion for him.

 _She behaves like a slave girl,_ he thinks, but now his reason is pressed from him by the ecstasy that is the tight squeeze of her arse around his prick. Reflexively, without meaning to, he lifts his hips and thrusts into her heat with a joyous cry, the silken glide of her insides against his skin driving him further out of his mind. Wild, he thrusts a second time before he can stop himself, his hands claws upon the sweat of her hips; "I am sorry, I am sorry," he stammers, anguished as he again forces himself to still. He can feel each heated pulse of blood through his cock, the throb of it agonising as he stops thrusting, but he must control himself in order not to hurt her, he must--

But now there is a cloud of black hair dragging against his chest, coming up to curtain his face, two almond eyes flashing at him in the dark. "Don't you dare stop!" she cries. "Please. Help me," she asks, now out of breath, her legs and her arms shaking as she leans over him. "Please. You do it," she stutters. "Tell me what to do."

And the beast in him groans, awakens once more; "Oh, so you want to be commanded, then, do you?" he snarls, wicked, reeling intoxicated from his heat; again, he pushes into her fantastic tightness and slaps her buttocks, grabbing at them, clawing at her so hard he is sure to leave marks. "Dance upon me, then, girl. Dance."

"But I--"

"Dance, girl!" Once more, he slaps her arse and now begins to thrust up into her with as much force as he can in this position. "Show me yourself. Show me your beauty, and I will reward you," he speaks to her a master to his slave, and already he can feel her cunny pulsing in front of his prick at the words. Thus, as she begins to dance her hips upon him, he is emboldened, spurring her on with hip-rolls to meet hers, with groans even filthier; now she is so aroused she has slid down on him completely and her wet, swollen cunny drags against his skin, hot and sticky and delicious. 

But he must see it; oh, how he wants to see it. "Show me how you play with yourself," he hisses through his teeth, "show me that pretty little cunny."

"And you'll do what?" she asks him with a laughter breathless, now soft and supple as she flexes her spine and gyrates her hips upon him, massaging his cock even as she takes her pleasure from it. 

He arches from the sweetness of her, sweat gleaming upon his chest: but more beautiful still is the golden sheen upon his Yassamin's skin as she now truly enjoys herself, silhouetted by the flames, seeming to glow as if she were made of fire. Fire, fire, heat, this sweet heat of her guts, this sweet wet heat of her sex that she now exposes to him, using only her fingertips to keep on rubbing at her clitoris. At the sight of her cunny, at the full fat lips of it and the swollen petals of it completely glistening wet, its sweet scent rushing to meet his nose, he wails; he draws his nostrils full of it and throws back his head.

"Answer me, my beast," she tells him, her own voice wavering even if she plays the tease; from her tremors and from the shortening, sharpening movements of her hips he can tell she is as close as he is. 

"God!" he groans, shaking his head, now taking her hard by the hips and controlling the pace of them, lifting her up and lowering her down faster, faster until she wails. "I'll make you come so hard your soul will leave your body, you little--"

But it is then that she kisses him, and the time for games is over. Roaring into her mouth, he slips out of her and turns her onto her belly. She has not even finished her first scream of surprise before another one bursts out of her throat as he enters her arse once more; he pins her down onto the blankets with his entire weight, thrusting into her so hard her entire body judders. "And I'm a man of my word!"

"Please, please, please--" she sobs underneath him and he doesn't know if she is begging for him to continue or to stop, and he hates himself for not being able to stop thrusting, now, should the latter be the case. But his balls are already lifting, his spine already sending sparks to his groin, and oh, but he has to have her come around him, has to feel that clutch around his prick.

"Ride your hands," he tells her and pulls back only for that short moment his body allows for him to pause; the moment she has rearranged her hands underneath herself, he lets go once more. He has seen her masturbate like this in his crystal, but cannot tell her this, now, too far gone to explain; she, too, is thankfully too far into her own pleasure to question him, even if he can again sense some surprise in her. 

And this pleasure of hers--oh, how well he knows it, the white-hot lightning shocks of sodomy--he envies it her so much that he has to peek inside of her to taste of it, he must, he must. And he laughs a madman as he feels her letting go of her shame and riding her hands, thrusting her clitoris into them, the ecstasy that now blinds her when his weight is added to hers. And the weight and the heat and the depth of his cock inside of her, the angle at which he is now hitting her, her shock as she feels herself trickle onto her hands--oh, now he knows she is there, and rushes up to meet her.

"Yassamin, take me, take all of me--" he but groans and plunges himself into the waves of her pleasure, this time crashing white like that of a wild storm; she shrieks a maniac underneath him, hurting his ears and he loves it, loves it, each shriek a lash of pleasure deep inside of his hips. If it had been her soul that had been pulling him inside of her before, now it is her entire body that's doing it, too, each atom of her flesh now tearing him inside of her, so violent and full is her release this time. His eyes flash white the same moment her arse first loosens, then tightens, then loosens around his prick, and she must have fainted there for a moment the way her entire body grows slack; yet soon she is groaning and spasming once more. 

And now, he cannot tell the convulsions of her guts, her womb from his own any longer, that's how hard he is coming inside of her; yet after those far-too-short bursts of white ecstasy have shot out of his body, he even resents the slickness of his own sperm now lessening that sweet silken friction he had so been enjoying. She feels so wonderful, a wonderful devastation as she still trembles underneath him, in that ravaging pleasure-pain unique to sodomy that turns one inside out. And he floats in her pleasure still as he gathers her to himself so that they are spooning, hugging her to himself despite her cold sweat, despite the mess of the oil and their combined fluids. As far as he is concerned, it is the most wonderful mess in the world, and he never wants to leave.

Finally, he softens and slips out of her; as her arse slurps a little, his sperm trickling out of it, she lets out a shocked, embarrassed noise. "Oh, my God. I'm sorry."

He chuckles against her neck. "I remember the first time that happened to me. I felt dirty, too. But you'll get used to it."

"I am not going to be able to sit down for a week," she murmurs in drunken disbelief. "But at the same time, it feels..."

"Amazing?"

"Like opium..." she murmurs as she cranes her head to look at him. "But without the nausea. No. Better."

He nuzzles her face and kisses her softly upon the lips. "I think that's what all the wise men and women of the world unanimously agree is called _love,_ my sweet."

"Mm," she says and the smile upon her face takes over his in turn; as she turns around in his arms, his face aches from how hard he is smiling, and he cannot remember the last time it had done so.

"Know that I am as love-drunk as you are," he murmurs and cups her face, nuzzling her nose with his. "Perhaps even more so. In fact--" and now his chest aches so that he fears it will break. He is an old man; perhaps he will have a heart attack this very moment--and now, a sob hitches in his chest. "Too happy. This seems too beautiful to be true. A dream. Please, Yassamin. Please tell me you will still be here come morning," he asks, and hates the way his cheeks now wet from tears.

She laces her fingers with his and kisses his tears. "You are a fool. The moment the sun rises, I will be here, washing and praying with you," she whispers. 

He but looks at her for a long while, searching her eyes. "I... I must apologise. For so long, I dreamed of you. For so long, you were but that princess in my crystal, and now that I have you... it will take some time for me to comprehend it, to understand it, to get used to being a husband," and his laughter is strange to his ears, so light. "To you of all people."

"Speaking of which, we have wedding arrangements to make," she grins and squeezes his hand. "I can't have you wearing that blue, like you are always in mourning," she says and frowns. "You _were_ going to be wearing white, were you not?"

"Listen to her! Already she is whipping me!" he laughs at the cliffs, but it is a laughter glad. "I will tell you about the blue one day, but not tonight," he says and kisses her hand. "It should not be a night of going over old sorrows. And my lady, you can rest assured that for you, I will wear anything you like. Or run through the streets naked if that should be your wish. Hell, for you, I'd drink wine and eat pork in the middle of the day on Ramadan!"

"Now I know you're mad," she laughs, but at her laughter, she accidentally farts out a little more of his sperm and curls up in an embarrassed, red-faced ball. "Oh, God."

He but chuckles and gathers her into his arms, rocking her. "You'll learn to control those muscles. I promise to help you train them every night from now on, if you like."

"I don't know whether to be terrified or glad," she whispers against his chest, but he can hear the smile upon her lips. 

"To be honest, I am a little nervous myself," he says and nuzzles her hair. 

"But is that not normal for a bridegroom?" she asks and smiles at him.

A bridegroom. A bridegroom. _Her_ bridegroom. 

He hugs her so tight she squeaks. 

Jaffar, son of Yahya has his Yassamin, his Yassamin laughing softly in love against his heartbeat. His Yassamin, his Yassamin, his Yassamin; to love, to protect, to hold in his arms like this until the end of his days.

His heart swells to the point of pain from happiness and secretly, over Yassamin's shoulder, he blows Anahita a joyous, joyous kiss.

***

END

***

**Author's Note:**

> -The Barmakids did indeed have their fingers in many, many pies in medieval Persia, quite literally: the bird pie Jaffar offers Yassamin is a genuine pasty-type thing favoured by travellers, named after his family. You can find the recipe [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/151342664313/andalusian-cookbook-table-of-contents)
> 
> -Freely rebloggable Tumblr promo post [here](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/151508573453/fic-the-temple-of-anahita-jaffarprincess) :3


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